Fic: Frail Fibers, Overstrung
Title: Frail Fibers, Overstrung
Author: tielan
Pairing: John/Teyla
Rating: R
Recipient: roguish_angel
Spoilers: None
Summary: "Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses."
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."
~ Oscar Wilde ~
- knowing smile -
Teyla is eating one of the Lantean meals when Major Sheppard enters the 'mess hall'.
He walks through the city of the Ancestors like the Mavanan cralik walks across the endless grasses of its habitat, comfortable in the surroundings, with the confidence of a creature who knows he is watched and cares not.
Teyla watches him as he claims his tray and his food, intrigued by this man who would not leave his people behind for an enemy, who was so eager to ally with her people, who has been so welcoming to her and hers - even in the face of the obvious distrust of the others of his kind.
Major Sheppard moves with the assurance of a man who is at home where he stands. Like the cralik, he paces himself with an easy stride, familiar with his body and his body's movements, self-possessed, even in an unfamiliar galaxy.
As he turns towards the room, his eye catches hers - a darkling gleam in the pristine light of the hall - and he makes his way to her table.
Teyla admits herself intrigued by John Sheppard.
He has many things to do, many demands on his time, and yet he made time to spend with her people while they were in the city - makes time to explain to her the myriad aspects of his country's culture. He could sit down with anyone in the room - any of the soldiers seated in groups across the large room - but he has chosen to sit with her.
Perhaps it goes no further than the interest of an ally or friend and Teyla is simply misreading him.
"Teyla."
"Major Sheppard."
The Major meets her gaze as he sits down but his smile has an element of uncertainty, at odds with the poise with which he approached her. He does not know what to make of her, any more than Teyla knows what to make of him or the attraction she feels for him.
As his hands set out the small containers of food, Teyla watches him, pausing in her meal to observe the way he moves, brisk and neat, easy in his skin.
And when everything is laid out, he looks up without surprise at finding her gaze on him and the slow, knowing smile on his lips burns her cheeks as he holds her eyes with his own.
- - -
- measured evasion -
Teyla hears his voice even through the babble of the people being evacuated. For all that this exodus was many moons in the planning, little has gone according to plan and the locals of this tiny moon are now fretful.
The cadences of his orders are distinctive, their difference emphatic amidst the mellifluous babble of the Edneshi as he tells them how the exodus will take place.
She notices that the Major's tone of voice reassures the worried Edneshi. Someone is in charge - someone is in control. Her support and those of Lieutenant Ford and the marines are secondary to the Major's assurance, conveyed through his ringing voice.
As they lead the Edneshi to the Ring of the Ancestors, Teyla half-listens to the conversation of the Edneshi women as they speculate on the Lanteans, and half-listens to Major Sheppard as he walks among the children while his men keep a wary eye on the sky.
He has enough youth in him to tease the children, yet enough understanding to treat them as worthy of adult instruction. If his voice contains an indulgent note, it is slight and the children do not hear it.
Teyla finds herself wondering why such a man has not fathered his own children - he cannot want for willing women. Several unattached Edneshi are even now indicating their interest, mingling with the children in the hope of catching his eye, but from the tone of their conversation, his words are measured and evasive.
He is not so evasive when one of the Edneshi men objects to a woman running her hand down the Major's gun in a gesture that needs no explanation. Teyla excuses herself from the women, even as words are exchanged. The Edneshi's words are harsh and angry, while Major Sheppard is clipped but civil.
"...we're here to help you move. Nothing more."
The Edneshi glares, and grabs for his sister's wrist, storming off while the children stare, wide-eyed. Parents come and lead the children away with apologetic mutterings, leaving the Major with Teyla.
He sighs - a long, rueful breath. "I'm not so good at this...diplomacy thing," he mutters, abashed.
She touches his arm. "You handled it well."
"Really?"
Teyla cannot help her smile. This man gives orders that ring with authority, and answers civilly - if curtly -when he is angry, and yet for a moment, he sounds as eager as any boy seeking approval.
"Yes."
- - -
- free and caged -
His fingers brush her bare waist as he leads her in the dance. Teyla can feel the slight callouses on his fingertips, the heat of his body against hers.
Many Pegasus cultures have dancing, both ritual and relaxed, but this dance is from Earth and is both carefully formal and sensually intimate.
Teyla wonders why she allows him to do this to them both.
John holds her as though she is delicate, although she is not. He holds her as though she is precious, although she is only his team-mate and friend. He holds her as though he possesses her, with a firm grip but a gentle touch.
She dares not look him in the eye.
His thighs brush hers lightly as he moves her backwards, and the hand that does not rest on her waist cradles the hand that is not on his shoulder. Blood rushes through her veins with every beat, every step, every movement; and she feels at once both free and caged by his arms.
They dance in a pattern that Teyla can barely grasp, but with an intent that she knows well enough.
Around them, the room turns again - a small turn, and he presses towards her, signal to step back. The nuances of this dance are fine and delicate, taking all her instinct to follow his lead.
He prompts her back two steps, and her shoulderblades brush the wall.
Teyla looks up in surprise. John's face is bare inches away, filling her vision, and even as she opens her mouth to ask what he is doing - as if she does not know - she feels his grip change.
Once before he held her against a wall, intent and inexorable. Now, his hands press to either side of her body, and her fingers lift to skim up his forearm, brushing through the rough hairs there as her own skin prickles with delicate tension.
His hand brushes her cheek, cradling her jaw in a caress that melts her bones as she meets his eyes.
"This time you get to say 'no' if you want," he tells her, his arm brushing her waist as he leans in towards her, a leisurely imprisonment.
She lets her finger trace his mouth. "No."
John stiffens against her body, flexing in protest and dismay at her words. "No?"
Perhaps it is cruel to tease him. "No, I do not wish to say 'no.'"
One moment's smile is all she is permitted before his mouth comes down on hers, blotting out thought.
- - -
- marked territory -
In the morning, John greets her in the gym.
His mouth tastes of mint and sunshine, crisp and clear like the melting rivers in the valleys when the snow melts in the hills. His mouth closes briefly over hers, a tentative savour. Then he takes a second sampling.
When he catches her alone in a corridor come midmorning, he mentions that she might like to take the newest set of marines through their paces before he unleashes Ronon on them. He begins to walk away, then turns on his heel to yank her into a quick kiss.
Teyla tastes coffee on his lips, bitter like the last warmth of autumn fading from the earth, and brisk like the first winter's wind through the tent flap.
He follows her when she pulls back, but she halts him with a touch. "We might be seen."
"No cameras in this corridor." John's smile is slight with just a hint of mischief, but her hand remains on his chest. He steps back, piqued and pointed. "All right, then."
She is not willing to let that go unchallenged, and on the pretext of wishing to report on the marines to him, she hunts him down in the room designated his office in the late afternoon.
He is in the middle of reviewing reports, but he leans back with a smile for her. "Did they need much tenderising?"
"Only a little," she says. "Gossip grows about Ronon's prowess."
"I'm sure he'll be happy about that." John watches her as she steps around the desk, his eyes appreciating her more openly here than he might among others. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Curiosity," she admits as she moves behind him and skims her hands down his chest as she leans over his shoulder to murmur in his ear. "I merely wished to taste you."
Her tongue slides down along the cords of his neck, savouring the salt and musk of his skin. His throaty groan vibrates against her lips as she nips him with her teeth, slight marks that will fade in a little while.
John is not a man to suffer being teased. He retaliates by cupping her nape in his hand and taking a great, greedy swallow of her mouth. Then another. Then another.
When they finally draw apart, the air is tense with the sultry tang of desire honed to a fine edge.
He searches her eyes before his gaze drops to her lips. "Tonight," he says, caressing her nape in request and encouragement.
"Yes," she promises and seals it with another kiss.
- - -
- spiced attar -
Teyla looks up as he closes the door behind him.
The scent of the pine-resin candles she burned is nothing more than a faint memory in the still air of her room, overlaying the rusky smell of the fine-plaited rush mats on her floor. Such small things remind her of Athos, long since razed.
"I did not think you were coming," she says as he sheds his jacket by the door and crosses the room to her in swift strides.
His kiss is hard and urgent, fierce with a need that Teyla recognises as she softens beneath his mouth. "I wasn't going to," he murmurs between kisses, his hands already eager on her body. "Changed my mind."
The stringent aroma of his aftershave stings her nostrils with its acrid tang as she strips him of his clothing and he peels her out of hers. As her lips skim his skin and his hands explore her body, the chemical bite gives way to the softer scents of sweat and musk and the wet heat that slicks her nether lips.
Desire rides thick on the air, a pressure that weighs them both down.
He lifts his chin in a gesture of surrender as she slides onto him, flesh sinking onto flesh as she gives herself over to their need. Teyla presses her cheek to his temple, where every pant drags the spicy attar of John's body and cologne deeper into her lungs, intoxication and inflammation.
She cries out, not once, but twice, the second coming hard on the heels of the first. The world is bright and dark around her as he arches, spending himself in her body.
In the drowsy aftermath, Teyla lies bonelessly beside him, her nose buried in his shoulder as they pant themselves out.
John curls an arm around her back and tugs her closer. "You smell nice."
"Mm?"
She feels the shift of her hair as he pushes his nose and mouth against her head. "Mmhm. Like honey and cinnamon."
Laughter threatens. "I did not think you were one for sweet speech, John."
His mumble is mock-offended. "Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises." His leg shifts and one hand flails further down the bed. A moment later, he hauls up a thick woollen blanket to cover them both. "And you do."
Distracted by the realisation that John intends to remain with her, at least for a little while, Teyla scrambles for comprehension. "I do?"
"Smell sweet and spicy."
Teyla smiles and presses closer against him. "You smell...fresh..."
"Fresh?"
"Like the sea."
Beneath the covers, his arms slide around her and his nose trails a path down her nape. "I always liked the sea."
Teyla lies in his arms and thinks that she will always remember him with the scent of the sea.
- - -
"Every sense hath been o'erstrung, and each frail fibre of the brain sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide."
~ Lord Byron ~
Author: tielan
Pairing: John/Teyla
Rating: R
Recipient: roguish_angel
Spoilers: None
Summary: "Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses."
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."
~ Oscar Wilde ~
- knowing smile -
Teyla is eating one of the Lantean meals when Major Sheppard enters the 'mess hall'.
He walks through the city of the Ancestors like the Mavanan cralik walks across the endless grasses of its habitat, comfortable in the surroundings, with the confidence of a creature who knows he is watched and cares not.
Teyla watches him as he claims his tray and his food, intrigued by this man who would not leave his people behind for an enemy, who was so eager to ally with her people, who has been so welcoming to her and hers - even in the face of the obvious distrust of the others of his kind.
Major Sheppard moves with the assurance of a man who is at home where he stands. Like the cralik, he paces himself with an easy stride, familiar with his body and his body's movements, self-possessed, even in an unfamiliar galaxy.
As he turns towards the room, his eye catches hers - a darkling gleam in the pristine light of the hall - and he makes his way to her table.
Teyla admits herself intrigued by John Sheppard.
He has many things to do, many demands on his time, and yet he made time to spend with her people while they were in the city - makes time to explain to her the myriad aspects of his country's culture. He could sit down with anyone in the room - any of the soldiers seated in groups across the large room - but he has chosen to sit with her.
Perhaps it goes no further than the interest of an ally or friend and Teyla is simply misreading him.
"Teyla."
"Major Sheppard."
The Major meets her gaze as he sits down but his smile has an element of uncertainty, at odds with the poise with which he approached her. He does not know what to make of her, any more than Teyla knows what to make of him or the attraction she feels for him.
As his hands set out the small containers of food, Teyla watches him, pausing in her meal to observe the way he moves, brisk and neat, easy in his skin.
And when everything is laid out, he looks up without surprise at finding her gaze on him and the slow, knowing smile on his lips burns her cheeks as he holds her eyes with his own.
- - -
- measured evasion -
Teyla hears his voice even through the babble of the people being evacuated. For all that this exodus was many moons in the planning, little has gone according to plan and the locals of this tiny moon are now fretful.
The cadences of his orders are distinctive, their difference emphatic amidst the mellifluous babble of the Edneshi as he tells them how the exodus will take place.
She notices that the Major's tone of voice reassures the worried Edneshi. Someone is in charge - someone is in control. Her support and those of Lieutenant Ford and the marines are secondary to the Major's assurance, conveyed through his ringing voice.
As they lead the Edneshi to the Ring of the Ancestors, Teyla half-listens to the conversation of the Edneshi women as they speculate on the Lanteans, and half-listens to Major Sheppard as he walks among the children while his men keep a wary eye on the sky.
He has enough youth in him to tease the children, yet enough understanding to treat them as worthy of adult instruction. If his voice contains an indulgent note, it is slight and the children do not hear it.
Teyla finds herself wondering why such a man has not fathered his own children - he cannot want for willing women. Several unattached Edneshi are even now indicating their interest, mingling with the children in the hope of catching his eye, but from the tone of their conversation, his words are measured and evasive.
He is not so evasive when one of the Edneshi men objects to a woman running her hand down the Major's gun in a gesture that needs no explanation. Teyla excuses herself from the women, even as words are exchanged. The Edneshi's words are harsh and angry, while Major Sheppard is clipped but civil.
"...we're here to help you move. Nothing more."
The Edneshi glares, and grabs for his sister's wrist, storming off while the children stare, wide-eyed. Parents come and lead the children away with apologetic mutterings, leaving the Major with Teyla.
He sighs - a long, rueful breath. "I'm not so good at this...diplomacy thing," he mutters, abashed.
She touches his arm. "You handled it well."
"Really?"
Teyla cannot help her smile. This man gives orders that ring with authority, and answers civilly - if curtly -when he is angry, and yet for a moment, he sounds as eager as any boy seeking approval.
"Yes."
- - -
- free and caged -
His fingers brush her bare waist as he leads her in the dance. Teyla can feel the slight callouses on his fingertips, the heat of his body against hers.
Many Pegasus cultures have dancing, both ritual and relaxed, but this dance is from Earth and is both carefully formal and sensually intimate.
Teyla wonders why she allows him to do this to them both.
John holds her as though she is delicate, although she is not. He holds her as though she is precious, although she is only his team-mate and friend. He holds her as though he possesses her, with a firm grip but a gentle touch.
She dares not look him in the eye.
His thighs brush hers lightly as he moves her backwards, and the hand that does not rest on her waist cradles the hand that is not on his shoulder. Blood rushes through her veins with every beat, every step, every movement; and she feels at once both free and caged by his arms.
They dance in a pattern that Teyla can barely grasp, but with an intent that she knows well enough.
Around them, the room turns again - a small turn, and he presses towards her, signal to step back. The nuances of this dance are fine and delicate, taking all her instinct to follow his lead.
He prompts her back two steps, and her shoulderblades brush the wall.
Teyla looks up in surprise. John's face is bare inches away, filling her vision, and even as she opens her mouth to ask what he is doing - as if she does not know - she feels his grip change.
Once before he held her against a wall, intent and inexorable. Now, his hands press to either side of her body, and her fingers lift to skim up his forearm, brushing through the rough hairs there as her own skin prickles with delicate tension.
His hand brushes her cheek, cradling her jaw in a caress that melts her bones as she meets his eyes.
"This time you get to say 'no' if you want," he tells her, his arm brushing her waist as he leans in towards her, a leisurely imprisonment.
She lets her finger trace his mouth. "No."
John stiffens against her body, flexing in protest and dismay at her words. "No?"
Perhaps it is cruel to tease him. "No, I do not wish to say 'no.'"
One moment's smile is all she is permitted before his mouth comes down on hers, blotting out thought.
- - -
- marked territory -
In the morning, John greets her in the gym.
His mouth tastes of mint and sunshine, crisp and clear like the melting rivers in the valleys when the snow melts in the hills. His mouth closes briefly over hers, a tentative savour. Then he takes a second sampling.
When he catches her alone in a corridor come midmorning, he mentions that she might like to take the newest set of marines through their paces before he unleashes Ronon on them. He begins to walk away, then turns on his heel to yank her into a quick kiss.
Teyla tastes coffee on his lips, bitter like the last warmth of autumn fading from the earth, and brisk like the first winter's wind through the tent flap.
He follows her when she pulls back, but she halts him with a touch. "We might be seen."
"No cameras in this corridor." John's smile is slight with just a hint of mischief, but her hand remains on his chest. He steps back, piqued and pointed. "All right, then."
She is not willing to let that go unchallenged, and on the pretext of wishing to report on the marines to him, she hunts him down in the room designated his office in the late afternoon.
He is in the middle of reviewing reports, but he leans back with a smile for her. "Did they need much tenderising?"
"Only a little," she says. "Gossip grows about Ronon's prowess."
"I'm sure he'll be happy about that." John watches her as she steps around the desk, his eyes appreciating her more openly here than he might among others. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Curiosity," she admits as she moves behind him and skims her hands down his chest as she leans over his shoulder to murmur in his ear. "I merely wished to taste you."
Her tongue slides down along the cords of his neck, savouring the salt and musk of his skin. His throaty groan vibrates against her lips as she nips him with her teeth, slight marks that will fade in a little while.
John is not a man to suffer being teased. He retaliates by cupping her nape in his hand and taking a great, greedy swallow of her mouth. Then another. Then another.
When they finally draw apart, the air is tense with the sultry tang of desire honed to a fine edge.
He searches her eyes before his gaze drops to her lips. "Tonight," he says, caressing her nape in request and encouragement.
"Yes," she promises and seals it with another kiss.
- - -
- spiced attar -
Teyla looks up as he closes the door behind him.
The scent of the pine-resin candles she burned is nothing more than a faint memory in the still air of her room, overlaying the rusky smell of the fine-plaited rush mats on her floor. Such small things remind her of Athos, long since razed.
"I did not think you were coming," she says as he sheds his jacket by the door and crosses the room to her in swift strides.
His kiss is hard and urgent, fierce with a need that Teyla recognises as she softens beneath his mouth. "I wasn't going to," he murmurs between kisses, his hands already eager on her body. "Changed my mind."
The stringent aroma of his aftershave stings her nostrils with its acrid tang as she strips him of his clothing and he peels her out of hers. As her lips skim his skin and his hands explore her body, the chemical bite gives way to the softer scents of sweat and musk and the wet heat that slicks her nether lips.
Desire rides thick on the air, a pressure that weighs them both down.
He lifts his chin in a gesture of surrender as she slides onto him, flesh sinking onto flesh as she gives herself over to their need. Teyla presses her cheek to his temple, where every pant drags the spicy attar of John's body and cologne deeper into her lungs, intoxication and inflammation.
She cries out, not once, but twice, the second coming hard on the heels of the first. The world is bright and dark around her as he arches, spending himself in her body.
In the drowsy aftermath, Teyla lies bonelessly beside him, her nose buried in his shoulder as they pant themselves out.
John curls an arm around her back and tugs her closer. "You smell nice."
"Mm?"
She feels the shift of her hair as he pushes his nose and mouth against her head. "Mmhm. Like honey and cinnamon."
Laughter threatens. "I did not think you were one for sweet speech, John."
His mumble is mock-offended. "Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises." His leg shifts and one hand flails further down the bed. A moment later, he hauls up a thick woollen blanket to cover them both. "And you do."
Distracted by the realisation that John intends to remain with her, at least for a little while, Teyla scrambles for comprehension. "I do?"
"Smell sweet and spicy."
Teyla smiles and presses closer against him. "You smell...fresh..."
"Fresh?"
"Like the sea."
Beneath the covers, his arms slide around her and his nose trails a path down her nape. "I always liked the sea."
Teyla lies in his arms and thinks that she will always remember him with the scent of the sea.
- - -
"Every sense hath been o'erstrung, and each frail fibre of the brain sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide."
~ Lord Byron ~